


not by something as accidental as blood

by thewalrus_said



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sense8 (TV) Fusion, F/M, M/M, Multi, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 13:57:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7107982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is just living his life, admittedly with the worse headache he's ever experienced, and then suddenly he's seeing hallucinations. Seven, to be precise, over and over. As the new cluster gets their bearings, they find themselves the object of a hunt - Tholomyes and Javert, two members of an older cluster, are searching for one of their number, and they won't stop until they find what they're looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not by something as accidental as blood

**Author's Note:**

> This thing, you guys. I can't even talk about it.
> 
> More love than I can ever hope to express to [RobinLorin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin) for beta, cheerleading, and general all-around friendshippery. And a special round of applause for [Dove](http://starfieldcanvas-art.tumblr.com/tagged/au%3A-not-by-something-as-accidental-as-blood) for the art! And for her patience with my lack of descriptive ability relating to said art. And thanks, of course, to George Blagden, for putting The Thing out tonight.
> 
> Credit for the Sad Bastard Jar (here called the Self-Esteem Jar due to accidental thievery) to idiopathicsmile.
> 
> Let's get this show on the road.

 

Cosette runs a hand through her hair as she stumbles down the stairs, yawning. Her dream had been lovely, sweet and utterly pain-free, but she had awoken again to the pounding migraine between her temples.

She’s so focused on the ache in her head that she nearly runs into her father in the kitchen. “Tea,” she mumbles by way of apology.

“Here,” he says, handing her a warm mug and pushing her into a chair. “I heard you moving around upstairs a few minutes ago.” He sits next to her, his own brown mug already on the table, and smiles at her. She’s able to return it after a few burning sips. “Sleep alright?”

“Wonderfully. But this headache…” she trails off. He frowns, putting a hand on her forehead. The gentle pressure eases the pain for a few seconds, and she sighs.

“How long has it been?” he asks, moving his fingers in a soft massage.

“Three days.” Cosette drinks as deeply as she can without dislodging his hand. “Nothing helps. I’ve given up trying to medicate it, for my liver’s sake.”

“Hmm.” He releases her forehead and returns his hands to his own mug. “If it’s not gone by Monday, we’ll go to the doctor. It might be your hormones.”

“It isn’t my hormones, Papa. And I think it is getting better, a little.” It’s true; two days ago, upon waking, she’d had to lay in bed and weep for a few minutes before forcing herself up, only to gag as her stomach heaved. Now she only feels a little nauseous aside from the pain.

Her father is still gazing at her, concerned, and she reaches over and pats his hand. “But alright. I’ll go to the doctor Monday if it hasn’t improved.”

He turns his hand over and raises her fingers, kissing them just as he’d done when they had met, in her foster home nearly twenty years ago. It still makes her smile, which makes the corners of his own mouth turn up, the closest to a proper beam she ever sees from her serious Papa. “Do you feel up for going out for breakfast? I’ve a craving for eggs Benedict.”

“I always feel up for breakfast at Corinthe. Even when it’s half past midnight and I’m sound asleep, I’m always ready.” Cosette drains her mug and stands to rinse it in the sink. “I’ll go get dressed.” There’s still too much worry between his brows for her comfort, and she kisses the top of his head as she passes on the way to the stairs.

 

“I haven’t had a headache this bad since my last hangover,” R moans, burying his face in Chetta’s lap.

“Go to the doctor, you stubborn idiot,” she says, but she’s petting his hair gently and she’s lowered her voice. After a beat she sighs. “Poor R. At least it’s not likely to make you want to relapse, if that’s the comparison you’re going with?”

“Always the silver lining.” R lets himself give the tiniest of whimpers. “If it’s not gone by the end of the week, I’ll go to the clinic. Promise.”

She can’t reach down to kiss his forehead while his head is on her leg, so she kisses her own fingertips instead and presses them to the crease between his brows. “Thank you. I can’t be worrying about you nonstop, you know.”

“You’re too good to me.”

“I’m exactly as good to you as you deserve.” They’ve had this exchange more times than R can count, and he instinctively reaches for the wallet in his back pocket for a quarter to put in the Self-Esteem Jar.  They’re almost at enough for an ice cream night, but she grabs his wrist before he can get too far. “I’ll let you off the hook this time because you’re in pain.”

“More silver linings,” he murmurs, tucking his hand under his cheek instead.

Chetta does have to work, unfortunately, and R manages to drag himself off the couch with her when she goes. Her hands must be magic, because the pounding in his head has eased up enough that he feels up to some mild cooking.

He’s turned the rice down to a simmer and is just opening a can of beans when his temples give another almighty throb, hard enough that he winces and slices his finger open on the edge of the can’s top. Blood starts welling up almost immediately, and he darts to the bathroom without even stopping to swear.

R’s head is still throbbing as he runs cold water over the slice, and the way it makes his eyes screw up is what stops the face in the mirror from registering in his mind until he’s swung the door open and pulled out a bandage. Sure enough, though, when the mirror is shut again there’s a woman’s face blinking sleepily up at him, long brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and looking just as confused as he feels.

“This is not the first hallucination I’ve experienced,” R says to himself, staring the woman in the eye. “They can’t hurt me. I just have to go on as if I never saw it.”

“Well that’s very reassuring, thanks ever so much,” the woman in the mirror snaps at him, which is more than any alcohol-induced phantasm has ever managed. Before he can say as much, she’s gone and his own face is blinking back at him, back to its normal height and appearance.

“The hallucinations can talk now. Awesome,” he mutters, and goes back to tending his finger. At least he hadn’t gotten blood on the carpet again.

 

Eponine can hear the blood pounding in her ears, and her vision is starting to go a little spotty, which is what finally makes her leave Gav and Azelma by themselves and make for the nearest bodega. “I’ve had the world’s worst headache for four days now,” she barks at Montparnasse behind the counter, “so don’t fucking start with me. Just gimme the best shit you have.”

Parnasse smirks at her like the little shit he is, but pulls a plastic baggie out from under the counter. She knows the weed inside is high quality, or the cops would’ve shut him down years ago, and there’s no way she can afford that much. “Friends and family discount,” he says, reading her grimace correctly as she comes closer. “You do look like shit, Ponine. Give me what you have and we’ll call it even.”

“I don’t need your charity,” she spits. “And don’t call me that.”

“Isn’t charity,” he says smoothly. “It’s an investment. Your visits are the brightest part of my week, my flower, and I won’t have you drooping on me.”

“Fuck off and die.” Eponine takes the bag and drops a few bills on the counter.

“And the same to you, my love!” he calls as she turns. There’s a nerdy-looking guy standing outside, staring in the window at her, and she sends the scowl towards him instead of Parnasse. It must work, because he flinches and is gone by the time she makes it outside.

 

Enjolras shoves the envelopes from his mailbox into his bag and sets out across the quad. His earbuds have tangled themselves into their usual knot, and he yanks them apart, his ferocity drawing stares from some nearby students.

None of the usual remedies have worked on this headache; maybe it needs the opposite. Maybe blasting the loudest music he has on his phone will work.

He’s just picked a promising album and put it on shuffle when a disheveled student catches his gaze. The man is sitting in the middle of a field, on the ground despite the abundance of benches around him, and he’s staring at Enjolras like Enjolras is something otherworldly.

As their eyes meet, Enjolras’ head gives one last almighty throb, and then the ache dies completely. The music in his ears is much, much too loud.

By the time he’s pulled his phone out again and dialed the volume down, the other man is gone.

 

Eponine pulls Azelma out of her father’s reach and steps in front of her. “Enough!” she shouts, but it’s no good. The blow lands on her shoulder, where Zel’s head would have been. She throws a punch back but wobbles, and he dodges it.

“Enough yourself, you ungrateful little bitch,” her father growls, and rears back. Eponine barely has time to cringe before something grabs her and throws her three feet to the left. It takes a heartbeat for her to realize there’s no pain, and then she looks over and there’s a tall bald guy standing in front of Zel, her father’s fist in one hand. The other shoots out and punches Thenardier straight in the nose. Then she’s back in her old spot, still holding her father’s fist, and the man is next to her. “Move your thumb, and keep your weight in your heels. Aim up for the nose, that should break it.” She does so, lashing out, and hears the telltale crunch of cartilage.

Thenardier stumbles and falls, and she grabs Zel with one hand, Gav with the other, and gets them both behind her lockable door as quick as she can.

“That was _awesome_ , Ep,” Gav breathes, dropping into her chair. Zel’s still clinging to Eponine, but she nods against her shoulder.

 

“Damn. Ow.”

Bossuet looks over as he rolls onto his back, hand wrapped around his knee. “Oh, sorry, did I get you too?” he says to the scruffy man who’s splayed out on the ground next to him. “I didn’t even see you, I’m so sorry! I swear, sometimes the sidewalk just reaches up and trips me sometimes.”

“You didn’t hit me,” the man says, eyes wide in confusion, and then Bossuet blinks and he’s gone.

 

Bahorel chugs another bottle of water in its entirety, clenching it in his fist when he’s finished.

Jehan winces at the sound of crinkling plastic. “I think we can rule out dehydration as the source of your headache, my friend.”

“Then I’m full out of fucking options, my friend.” Bahorel sinks into the armchair in their living room and presses his forehead into his palms. “I have no idea what this is. I’ve tried everything.”

Jehan hums, getting to his feet and padding over to the chair. Bracing himself on the back of the chair with one hand, he plants one foot and swings the other over until he’s straddling Bahorel from behind. “Any other symptoms?” he asks, bringing his hands to Bahorel’s temples and pressing in.

Bahorel gives a little groan of relief. “Seeing things,” he admits. “People.”

Jehan hums again, and Bahorel is sickeningly grateful for him; Feuilly would have dragged him off to a doctor by now if he’d said that to him. “Seeing people. Like when you had the flu?”

Bahorel shakes his head as much as he can without dislodging the small hands splayed out across his head. “Doesn’t feel like that. It feels _real_ . I punched a guy in the face the other day for beating up his daughter. I was _there_ , only I wasn’t.”

“Poor, brave Bah.” Jehan drops his hands, wrapping his arms around Bahorel’s shoulder, and drops a soft kiss on his neck. “I’ll do some reading. See if I can find anything in the areas Feuilly doesn’t approve of.”

“Thank you.”

Jehan’s just put his fingers back to work on Bahorel’s head when the front door opens and Feuilly walks through. “Hello,” he calls, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door. The sound scrapes through Bahorel’s head, and Jehan shushes him softly. “Sorry,” Feuilly says, coming closer. “Head still hurting?”

“We’re trying a radical new therapy,” Jehan explains. “Trying to cuddle his headache away.”

“Sounds fun.” Feuilly drops to the floor, leaning back against Bahorel’s legs. “I love Cuddle Baz Time.”

“It’s always Cuddle Baz Time,” Bahorel says, closing his eyes and leaning back into Jehan’s embrace.

 

There’s a new student in Combeferre’s rotation. Combeferre is so deep in his note-taking that he doesn’t even hear him come in; doesn’t notice him until the newcomer is practically close enough to touch. He shoots the man a glare, but softens it when the man stares at him, obviously confused. Combeferre cuts him some slack on his first day and takes an incongruous step to his right.

The doctor he’s studying finishes with the patient in the bed and moves on to the next one, and then the next, and then the next. The new student stays oddly close to Combeferre each time they move, and eventually Combeferre stops moving aside. It’s not as if the proximity himself is making him uncomfortable, just the panicked confusion on the man’s face, and with each new patient he seems to settle, relaxing into curiosity.

Finally they’re released for lunch. Combeferre takes his sandwich outside, settling onto a bench in the shade. He’s barely taken his first bite before the other man is beside him again. “Can I help you with something?” Combeferre asks, swallowing.

“I’m not sure,” the man says. “I’m not entirely sure what’s happening right now.”

Combeferre chuckles. “Well, I certainly know that feeling. When did you transfer here?”

“Um. When you did, I suppose?” the man says, and then Combeferre puts two and two together, and comes up with the strange other people and places that have been flitting in and out of his vision lately.

“Oh!” he says. “Oh, I see. Where are you meant to be?”

“Paris. Where am I now?”

“Seattle. The United States.” Combeferre brushes his hand onto his pant leg and extends it. “I’m Combeferre.”

“Enjolras,” the man says, taking it. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“And you. Care to sit?”

“Please,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre scoots over to make room. “At home I’m in bed, but I’ve been standing for hours here and I can feel it.” He sinks down onto the bench and sighs. “Much better.”

Combeferre smiles and goes back to his sandwich.

 

Cosette darts forward and snags the redhead by the sleeve before he can meander away again. “Hey!” she half-shouts as her fingers take hold, and he stumbles in surprise.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” he starts before he even begins to turn. “I didn’t see you - oh,” and his speech trails off as their eyes meet. “Oh, it’s you!”

He seems inclined to just leave it at that and stare at her, so she takes the lead. “What are you doing here? You were in the street three days ago, and on the beach yesterday, and how you’re here. Are you following me?”

“No,” he breathes, finally blinking. A faint pink flush steals over his face; Cosette has to fight not to be charmed. “Well, I - maybe? I don’t mean to be. And I’m only here for some books, I finished all my roommate’s shelves and thought I’d branch out.”

“Books?” Cosette is distracted for a moment, despite herself. “This is a farmers market.”

“No,” the man says slowly. “This is a library.”

And then it _is_ a library, Cosette finds. The sky has been replaced by a stone ceiling, and all around her are huge stacks of books. She drops his arm but the shelves remain, and, she discovers, the faint dusty smell of old books. “What on _earth_ -“

“Did you say you were on a beach yesterday?” he cuts her off. “I was in my room, reading, and I saw you through my window, but when I got up to look you were gone.”

“You were holding a book,” she remembers. “And you looked overdressed for the beach, I remember.”

“It’s freezing in my apartment, the heat’s broken. And-“

Another patron shoves their head around the end of the shelf nearest them. “Shhh!” she hisses, scowling, and ducks out of sight again.

“Sorry!” he hisses back, and takes Cosette’s elbow. “This way.”

He tugs her through the shelves until they reach an empty study room, and he holds the door for her. “There, we can talk in here.” As the door shuts he catches her eyes again, and flushes darker this time. “Wow.”

“Wow?”

“It’s just - up close, you’re…”

He trails off, and Cosette goes cold. “I’m what?” If she’s hallucinating strange, charming men, they’re not going to be bigots. Not if she has anything to say about it.

“Even more beautiful than I thought,” he blurts. The blush hits his ears. “Sorry! Gosh, that was horrible, Courf is always telling me I’m tactless, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” She relaxes. “It’s better than what I thought you were going to say by a long shot.”

“What - oh!” All the blood rushes out of his face, making her snort. “Gosh, I - I mean…”

“It’s alright,” she repeats. He looks pathetically grateful. She likes it. “Sit down before you pass out.” He does, still looking at her like he’s been clubbed over the head. She sits opposite him. “My name’s Cosette.”

“Marius.”

“Lovely to meet you, Marius.” She smiles, and he grins back, wide and eager, but before she can say anything else a hand comes down on her shoulder and she’s back in the market.

“Are you alright, Cosette?” her father says, coming around to face her. “You’ve been standing here looking at the lemons for ages.” Indeed, the merchant behind the stand is giving her an odd look.

“I - I’m fine,” she manages. He doesn’t look convinced. “Serious business, lemons. They require a good deal of thought.” She picks two up at random. “These, please, I think,” and pays before her father can pull out his wallet. “Is there anything else on the list?”

Her father shakes his head. “I got everything else while you were contemplating citrus. Shall we?” He offers her his arm, like he always does, and she laughs and takes it with one last glance around the market.

 

“Ah, Marius!” Courfeyrac calls from the bathroom when Marius opens the door. “Were you successful in your quest for engaging literature?”

“And how.” Marius deposits the stack of books onto the kitchen table for Courfeyrac’s perusal; he tore through all his roommate’s books, so it seems only fair Courf should get first crack at his haul.

Courf comes out of the bathroom and picks up the first book before catching sight of Marius’ face and putting it back down. “Marius, you’re beaming! What’s happened? Did you run into another stray cat today? I know you love them, and I do too, but we’re not allowed pets on the lease.”

“A reasonable trade for in-house laundry facilities and an amazingly fast water heater,” Marius recites, and shakes his head. “No, not a cat. Not an animal of any kind. Not an Earthly being at all, I think.” His knees go weak at the memory of Cosette’s hand on his arm, and he sinks down onto the couch.

His moment of peaceful repose is broken as Courf jumps over the armrest to land heavily next to him. “An affair of the heart! Come, tell Uncle Courf everything.”

“She’s perfect!” Marius wails. “She’s beautiful, and kind, and observant, and her smile is just the greatest, and at one point she was about three seconds from punching me.” He sighs again.

“Did you deserve it?”

“Through my inability to communicate like a rational human being, yes.”

Courf takes hold of Marius’ face and gazes deep into his eyes for a moment, before giving a firm nod. “Well, my dear, I thoroughly approve of her. Does this angel have a name?”

“Cosette.”

“Stunning!” Courf plants a loud kiss on Marius’ forehead and stands, moving back to the stack of books on the table. “I look forward to your wedding. Now, I was going to order takeout for dinner. Would you care to join me, or are you still drawing sustenance from your divine encounter?”

“Both.”

 

Enjolras is in class when he sees the man from the quad again, halfway through a seminar on nonviolent methods of resistance and whether they have any hope of success. He’s just taken his final question when he hears a loud snort and traces it back to the man in the beanie he’d seen sketching the other day. The man still has a hat on, but now he’s staring directly at Enjolras, arms crossed and smirking. Enjolras pauses mid-sentence, but no one else reacts to his rudeness - indeed, they’re all looking at Enjolras now, eyebrows slowing going up in confusion. He continues his answer. By the time he’s finished, the man has snorted twice more, rolled his eyes so heavily he nearly fell out of his chair, and then actually leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Not even the people on either side of him react to his brazen snores, and Enjolras can only assume the man is a known troublemaker. Or perhaps he’s an administrative plant, sent to see how the new guy reacts under pressure. The thought is reassuring; Enjolras can deal with skeptical establishments. He waves the last stragglers out of the room after the seminar with a smile, and turns to see the man still seated, cross-legged on his chair now and eyeing him right back. “I take it you don’t think much of sit-ins?” Enjolras asks, after a few moments of silence.

“Not as such, no.” The man’s French is accented slightly, like it’s his native tongue but he’s lived somewhere else for a very long time. “Nor boycotts, nor letter campaigns, nor any other kind of nonviolent bullshit you and your type think will change the world. Not on their own.”

Enjolras shifts. It’s a little too close to his own line of thinking to be entirely comfortable, but no university wants a lecturer to start advocating peaceful protests as a recruitment strategy for more violent uprisings, so he generally toes the party line. He gets the sense, however, that if he said as much, this man would still scoff. The thought bothers him. “Do you believe in anything?”

“I don’t believe in actions, Apollo, I believe in people.” The man swings his legs out from under him and finally stands. “And people are mortal, which is why nothing ever lasts.”

“If you don’t see any use in it, why are you here?” Enjolras asks, skipping over the comparison to a Greek god. If the man is a student, it’s highly inappropriate, and if he isn’t… well, it’s still inappropriate.

“Not by choice, I assure you.” The man has advanced, standing now in front of the lecturer’s podium, still holding the day’s notes. This close Enjolras can see the edges of tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves and the top of his collar, can see the unwashed mass of curls under the red beanie, can see the bright blue of his mocking eyes. The man is still talking. “I was drawn by the light of your sun, I can only assume, Apollo, and I can’t seem to find my way free.”

“Door’s that way.” Enjolras nods towards it. It’s not the first time he’s been compared to a force of nature, and it won’t be the last, but it’s the first time such a comparison has left him dry-mouthed and off-balance.

The man looks. “Huh,” he says, sounding genuinely surprised. “That might actually work.”

He takes a few steps away from the podium, and Enjolras can’t help himself. “Are you a student?”

The man turns back to him and grins. “No.”

“Administrative plant?”

That earns him a laugh. “Not remotely.” And with that, he reaches for the door and disappears through it.

Enjolras breaks as soon as the door clicks shut, all but ripping it open and sticking his head through, drawing in a breath to call out. The hallway is deserted.

 

“Keep it elevated. Above his head,” the voice comes from over her shoulder. Eponine doesn’t turn, doesn’t move except to yank Gavroche’s wrist up over his head, ignoring his squawk of protest. “We need cloth, clean as you can get it.”

“Azelma!” Eponine barks. “Get me the laundry basket, now!”

As her little sister comes running over, the serious-looking guy with glasses that was at the bodega and the school steps around to Gavroche’s other side. Eponine grabs a dishcloth out of the basket - thankfully, it’s red already. “Pressure, now, hard as you can,” Glasses says. Eponine presses the cloth to Gavroche’s arm and holds. “No, firmer. Like this,” and then Eponine’s on Gavroche’s other side, and Glasses is holding the bloody rag to the bleeding wound.

“Ow, Ep, Jesus!” Gavroche whines.

“Sorry, kid, sorry, gotta stop the bleeding,” Eponine answers, back in her own body, Glasses back where he was. Gavroche shuts his eyes tight and nods. “Zel, the first-aid kit.”

By the time Azelma’s back again, the bleeding’s stopped enough that Glasses tells her to take the cloth off. “Could use stitches but probably doesn’t need them. Looks like he missed the artery. Bandage it up, tight as you can, and keep it clean.”

Eponine does so, Glasses’ hands reaching in to tighten or adjust as needed. Together they tuck the edge under, and then he nods and is gone. Eponine sighs and moves to the bathroom, filling the sink with cold water and dropping the cloth in to soak. “You need pain meds, kid?” she calls over her shoulder to Gavroche.

“Nah, I’m alright,” he says, like he always does. She stands over the sink a moment longer, head bowed, and feels him butt up against her side, hugging her. “Sorry,” he mutters into her shoulder.

“So incredibly not your fault, kid.” She ruffles his hair and kisses the top of his head, and he lets her, which shows how scared he was. “Go lie down before you fall down.”

 

The next time Bossuet sees the scruffy man, it’s two weeks later and he’s just tripped over a footrest in his living room. This time, the man is sitting on the couch. He gives a sympathetic wince.

Bossuet heaves himself up and drops down onto the couch next to him. “Why are you in my apartment, watching me injure myself again?” He’s surprisingly not panicking, for all that there’s a strange, unshaven person in his home where there wasn’t before. Maybe living with Joly has squashed all the panic out of him; maybe Joly’s stolen his panic in the night. He’ll have to ask.

“I don’t mean to be,” the man says. “Are you one of those people I’ve been seeing lately?”

“Oh!” Bossuet gives his shin a final rub and stretches it out. “Maybe! I didn’t even think of that. Joly says they’re figments of my imagination, something to do with stress. Are you a figment?”

“Nah. I’m real. You’re the hallucination.”

“Huh.” Bossuet gnaws on his lip for a moment. “I suppose I could be a hallucination. Do hallucinations have senses of self? If so, how would we ever know?” The man’s laughing at him, which certainly doesn’t disqualify him from being a figment. “I’m Bossuet. Lesgles, actually, but Bossuet to friends, and if I dreamed you up I think you qualify.”

“Those are both awesome names. I’m Grantaire.” They shake hands, and it certainly feels solid enough. Bossuet’s about to say something else when Grantaire turns his head suddenly. “My roommate’s home. I have an idea. Give me your phone.”

Bossuet hands his phone over and Grantaire programs a number in. “This is her number. Call her and ask for me.”

Bossuet looks down at the phone in his hand, and then back up. Grantaire’s not there anymore. He presses _Call_. It rings twice, three times, and then the most beautiful voice he’s ever heard snaps, “Hello?”

“Hi,” Bossuet says, once he’s found his own voice again. “Is Grantaire there?”

“Hold on. R!” she hollers, phone lifted away from her ear. “Why is someone calling my phone asking for you?”

“Experiment,” Bossuet can hear Grantaire answer, and his heart skips a beat. “I’ll explain later, gimme your phone for a second. Bossuet?” he asks, voice clear and loud again. “You there?”

“Not a figment, then.”

“Nor a hallucination. That’s so weird. Gonna give Chetta her phone back again, but I’ll text you so you have my number.”

Bossuet considers this. “Why would I need your number if you keep popping up next to me?”

“Good point. Gonna do it anyway, hold on.”

The line goes dead, and then a few seconds later a message from an unknown number appears. _Hello, hallucination, this is R._

 _Hello, figment, this is Bossuet,_ he responds, grinning at the bilingual pun. _I have no idea how to explain this to my boyfriend._

_Well, if you figure it out, share with the class. Chetta’s pissed._

Bossuet saves R’s number into a new contact, and then, after a beat, saves Chetta’s as well.

 

Combeferre looks up from where his patient is finishing her list of symptoms and sees Enjolras leaning against the wall behind her, concentrating.

Enjolras has taken to sitting in on Combeferre’s rotations, lurking in corners and listening intently as patients ramble through lists of half-irrelevant symptoms. Sometimes Combeferre finds himself explaining as much to Enjolras as to the patient, which is surprisingly helpful in getting his points across, and also highly unethical.

“I’m sure you being here is a violation of every HIPAA statute there is,” Combeferre says once the last sniffling child is gone.

Enjolras shrugs. “It’s not like I understand half the words you say. Or know any of these people.”

“Still.” Combeferre sighs. “If anyone finds out about my imaginary friend following me around listening to confidential medical information, I am so fired.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

When he looks over, Enjolras is clearly trying to bite down on a grin. “Seriously, Enjolras,” Combeferre says. “Whatever’s happening is weird, but I have a code to uphold. No more eavesdropping.”

Enjolras sobers up so quickly that Combeferre feels a twinge of guilt. He holds out his hand, pinky extended, and Enjolras smiles again and wraps his own pinky around it. “Dinner on Thursday like usual?”

“Lunch on Thursday as usual, you mean,” Combeferre says, his standard reply, and Enjolras laughs before vanishing.

 

“Floreal? What the fuck are you doing here?”

It is her, Grantaire is sure of it. It’s been over seven months since he’s been back to her shop, but his old tattoo artist is sitting in his quiet place, waiting for him.

“I’m not here,” she says, mouth twisting in the same way it did when he told her he wanted a wine cork inked behind his ear. “But I suspect you knew that already.”

“Well, I had an inkling.” She shifts over and he pulls himself up onto the roof ledge next to her. “So,” he says. “You’re one too?”

“We’re called Sensates.”

She’s looking at him seriously, so he holds off the giggles that threaten. What a _name_. “That means nothing to me.”

Floreal cracks up. “Yeah, no reason it should. Don’t know who named us, but that’s what we’re called. Or so I was told when my cluster was born.”

Grantaire frowns in thought. “So you’re not part of my…cluster?”

“Nah. Sensates can communicate outside their cluster if they’ve made eye contact, though, which is why I’m here.” He cocks an eyebrow and she rolls her eyes. “Yeah. I know. But I don’t make the rules.”

“So what are you doing here? Did you miss me that much?”

She shoves him. For all she isn’t actually here, he sure leans alarmingly far over the side. “You don’t tip that well. I just felt your infant consciousness scrabbling around and came to tell you to shut up.”

“Sorry.” Grantaire’s beaming, though, and she laughs at him. “While you’re here, I have some questions about logistics.”

It’s Floreal’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Let me guess, there’s a hot guy in your cluster and you want on that.”

“You know me so well.”

 

Bahorel’s in the gym, visualizing the IPLS plastered across his punching bag, and then a blink later he’s walking out of a library at night, next to a sweet-looking blonde girl a full head shorter than him. She notices him a few steps later, and thankfully doesn’t pull the pepper spray she’s unsubtly fingering in her coat pocket.

He looks around, and sees a group of people huddled together and staring at her - all white, all vaguely preppy. No wonder she’s concerned. “Anyone done anything worth punching, or just a vibe?” he asks, turning back to the girl.

She shakes her head. “Just a vibe. But I’ve learned to listen to my gut.”

“It’s usually the best thing to do. Want an escort home?”

“Just out of the square should be fine. And only if you stop thinking of me as _girl_. We’re the same age, more or less, I’d bet.”

Bahorel laughs. She frowns more deeply, and he hastily covers, “No, you’re right, of course, it’s just - you sound like my flatmate. He’s always yelling at me for shit like that.”

“I like him already.”

A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that the group has stayed put, and it’s only another minute before they’re sufficiently out of the square for the woman to take her hand off the spray. “Bahorel, right?” she says. “I’m Cosette.”

“Pleasure to meet you. Enjoy the rest of your walk.”

“Enjoy the rest of your workout,” she says, standing next to his punching bag, and then she’s gone and he’s grinning at thin air.

“Dude.” Bahorel spins to see Feuilly standing in the threshold. “You’ve been standing there for, like, three minutes, staring into space. If you’d made it to five I was gonna try and shake you out of it.”

Bahorel shakes his head and starts unstrapping his gloves. “Never shake me out of it. The people in my head need me.”

Feuilly snorts. “You’ve been spending too much time with Jehan. Hurry the fuck up, I’m hungry.”

 

“Look, I so don’t have time for this right now,” Eponine snaps at the gangly redhead sitting at her kitchen table.

“Time for what?”

She dumps the grocery bags on the counter and rubs a hand over her forehead. “Going crazy. So just fuck off, alright? I’ve got mouths to feed, I don’t have time for losing my mind.”

The guy stands up. “Well, I don’t think we’re going crazy. But can I help?” He waits for her nod, and then reaches for the bag closest to him.

Somehow the groceries get unpacked in half the time it normally takes, which doesn’t seem possible if he’s a hallucination. He knows where everything is supposed to go, which also doesn’t make sense. After a few minutes of watching him impeccably guess the destinations of various foodstuffs, Eponine gives up and lets it go, only flagging him when he’s about to put away something she’s about to use.

“I’m Marius,” he says when everything’s done, balling up the plastic bags and handing them to her. She stuffs them under the sink with the rest.

“Eponine. Nice to meet you, I guess. Are you sure I’m not going crazy?”

Marius shifts, leaning back against the counter. “Well, two of the others - have you met any of the others? I’m sure they’ll pop up sooner or later, if you haven’t - they did an experiment with cell phones, and they got hold of each other and confirmed it with other people. So I think we’re all real.”

“I’ve met one.” Eponine takes a bite out of an apple and grabs the bag of potatoes to peel. “Doctor type; my little brother scraped himself up and he helped out. Didn’t catch his name. And I think there was someone else helping me punch my dad more effectively, one time.” She doesn’t mention the guy in her reflection - that genuinely might have been a dream. She’d been napping pretty hard right beforehand, after all.

“Hmm.” Marius takes the first potato from her and runs it under the sink faucet to clean. “Don’t think I’ve met either of them. But there’s a lecturer, I sat in on one of his classes last week, and a really clumsy fellow, and an artist in DC. Those last two did the experiment. Oh, and Cosette.”

The way he says the final name makes something twist in Eponine’s guts. _Jealousy_ , she identifies, but there’s no reason for it. She’s just met this guy. She hasn’t even decided if she likes him yet. “So that’s, what, eight? Counting us.” No wonder the headache was so bad.

Marius hums. “Wonder what it’s all for.” Neither of them say much of anything until the last potato’s been taken care of, and then Marius looks at his watch. “Shoot, I’ve gotta run. Good luck with lunch!”

He’s gone before she can reply. Just in time, too, because the door opens three minutes later. “We’re home!” Gav calls from the front room.

“Good,” Eponine shouts back. “Get in here and help with lunch!”

 

_Is anyone else uncomfortable, or is it just me?_

Combeferre looks up from the note Cosette slid onto his desk and rolls his eyes; she giggles. Bossuet leans over to try and read the note and falls out of his seat, knocking the chair over with a _thud_.

It does nothing to interrupt Enjolras and Grantaire, sitting ten feet from them and arguing fiercely over the current state of the United Nations.

Enjolras had called them together, wanting to practice his next lecture on a diversely-minded crowd; he hadn’t gotten more than seven minutes in before Grantaire leaned in, a perverse spark in his eye, and now they’re sitting on opposite sides of the loveseat in Enjolras’ apartment, leaning closer together with each point. The debate was political, but Cosette was right - it feels rather more like foreplay than Combeferre is entirely comfortable with.

Bossuet, having finally gotten hold of the note, nods vigorously up at Combeferre and Cosette. “Eat that,” Cosette whispers down to him. “In case they find it.”

Instead, Bossuet balls up the note and chucks it directly at Grantaire’s head. Grantaire, startled out of his train of thought, jerks slightly and looks at them. “What?”

“Just letting you know we can’t stay for the rest of the lecture,” Combeferre puts in, before Cosette can make the off-color joke he can see forming behind her eyes. “Something’s come up.”

“More like some _things_ are _about to_ come up,” Cosette mumbles. Bossuet squawks with laughter.

Grantaire looks at Enjolras again, seems to notice how close they are, and leans back. He pulls his phone out from his pocket. “Oh, I should go too, sorry. Great lecture,” he says to Enjolras, then disappears.

Enjolras frowns at Combeferre. “Spoilsport.”

“Spare the audience, next time,” Cosette advises, standing up. “It was a good lecture, though, from what we got of it.” With a wave, she winks out of the room. Bossuet, who still hasn’t gotten off the floor, follows suit.

Combeferre looks at Enjolras, gaze steady, until Enjolras scowls and looks down. “It’s not just me,” Enjolras says, scowling. “I know he feels it too.”

“Just don’t push him.” Combeferre stands and puts a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “He’ll get there in his own time, if he gets there.”

Enjolras blows the air out of his mouth. “You’re probably right.”

“Lunch on Thursday?”

“Dinner on Thursday,” Enjolras says with a smile. Combeferre takes his leave.

 

Marius shifts his leg out from under Bahorel’s foot, wincing as pins and needles shoot up from his ankle.

Combeferre reaches over from the other side of the bed and starts absentmindedly massaging the limb in question, without pausing in his recitation off the flash card in his other hand. “What are the three types of conspiracies?”

“Simple, circle, and chain,” Bahorel answers after a moment’s hesitation.

“Very good.” Combeferre releases Marius’ leg, now free from tingles, and says, “You’re averaging about an 83% now, I think you’ll do fine.”

“Shut up and keep reading,” Bahorel growls, sliding his body to the right until his shoulders slip off and his head touches the floor.

“Don’t lie like that, it doesn’t actually help and it’s not good for you long-term.”

“But I feel so much better like this.” Bahorel flails a hand and hits Marius in the knee. “Next question.”

Before Marius can focus on the card in his hand, the three of them hear footsteps outside, and then a knock on the door. “Are you decent, Bah?”

“As much as I ever am. Come on in.”

A short man with the longest hair Marius has ever seen on anyone steps through the door. “Feuilly just called, I’m putting dinner on now. Twenty minutes.”

“Thanks, Jehan,” Bahorel says from where his head is still pressed against the floor. “I’ll be out.”

Jehan nods, and then takes in the mess of papers and index cards on Bahorel’s bed. “Oooh, you’re not alone?”

Marius shifts, reaching a hand up to pat his hair down into submission and trying to pull himself into a more suitable sitting position at the same time. Bahorel looks up at him and laughs. “Chill, Marius, he can’t see you.” He turns back to Jehan. “Yeah. Combeferre and Marius are here. They’re helping me study.”

“Combeferre and Marius,” Jehan repeats slowly. “The medical student and the duckling?”

Marius squawks and kicks Bahorel’s nearest leg. Bahorel’s laughing too hard to protest; even Combeferre has broken out into a smile. Marius glares at him.

“Yeah, those two,” Bahorel answers, once he’s gotten ahold of himself. He braces his hands against the floor and pushes himself back up onto the bed. “You’ve offended Marius.”

“ _You’ve_ offended Marius, it was your description,” Jehan retorts. “I would say it’s nice to meet you, Marius, Combeferre, but I think I’ll save that until we can actually communicate without Bahorel as an intermediary.”

“I take offense to that. I am inherently trustworthy.”

Jehan snorts. “Whatever you say, Bah. Dinner’s in twenty minutes.” He steps back and shuts the door behind him.

“He seems nice,” Combeferre observes.

“He’s really not. That’s why we get on so well.” Bahorel sits up and points at Marius. “Your turn. And no multiple choice this time, it feels too much like cheating.”

“The question was written as multiple choice!” Marius objects, but Bahorel just reaches out and taps the top card in Marius’ hand. “As you wish, then.”

 

Enjolras turns on the water, pulls his shirt off, and catches a flash of movement from the corner of his eye.

“Jesus!” Grantaire yelps, looking equally surprised to see him. “Sorry! I’ll just-“ He actually covers his eyes with his hand and flees down the hallway.

Amused, Enjolras calls, “I’ll be out in five minutes, if you want to wait,” and then firmly shuts the door before disrobing further. Not that a closed door could stop Grantaire materializing next to him, but it makes him feel a bit more private.

Six minutes later, Enjolras pulls on the clothes he had thankfully brought with him into the bathroom, towels his hair dry, and opens the door. Grantaire is sitting on his couch, Enjolras’ laptop open on his knees. The sight makes something twist in Enjolras’ stomach that he immediately decides to ignore. “No downloading porn,” he says instead, and Grantaire looks up.

“What would porn even be, for you?” he asks. “A recording of Kennedy’s Berlin Wall speech?”

“Ha ha. Want a glass of water?”

“No, thanks. Would that even work?”

“Good question. We should try it one time, for science.” Enjolras gets one for himself and takes a deep drink. Showers always make him thirsty.

“Oooh, I felt that,” Grantaire says from his perch on the couch. He types a few more keys, then nods and closes the laptop. “All better.”

“Tell me you didn’t do anything irreversible, at least,” Enjolras says, moving over to open it again. His lecture notes for next week are still up on the screen, now with comments littered throughout. “Hmm.”

Grantaire reaches out and closes the laptop lid again. “Something to pass the time. I thought you’d be angrier.”

Enjolras looks at him. “Budge over,” he says, dropping onto the couch next to Grantaire. He can feel the heat from his body pressing into his own, can smell the cigarettes and vanilla that he catches in his nose whenever his thoughts drift towards Grantaire. “Why do you always smell like vanilla?”

Grantaire laughs, falling back against the cushions and turning his face towards Enjolras. “My roommate got a ton of scented lotion last Christmas. She can’t stand the stuff, so I took it.”

“I like it.” Enjolras catches Grantaire’s eye and holds it for a heartbeat, two, three. Then Grantaire blinks and looks away, and Enjolras’ stomach twists again. “What brought you here, if you don’t mind my asking?” he asks.

A blink and they’re outside, sprawled on what Enjolras realizes, after a moment, are the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. He sees a bottle of water on his left, a sketchbook on his knees, and there’s music playing softly in his ears, and then they’re back in Enjolras’ living room. “Thinking of you,” Grantaire admits. “The Mall always makes me think of you lately.”

“I’m flattered.” Their bodies have curved in towards each other, knees almost touching. Enjolras reaches out and touches the back of Grantaire’s hand. He gets nothing but a sigh in response, so he wraps his fingers firmly around it and looks back up.

Grantaire looks sad. No, not sad, Enjolras realizes - resigned. “Why?” Enjolras asks, before he can stop himself, or explain himself.

It isn’t necessary. “You wouldn’t like me at all if we weren’t connected like this,” Grantaire says. “You’d hate me. I’ve met people like you, people who burn as brightly as you, and I always wind up charred.”

“Maybe that’s why we have it. This connection.” Enjolras shifts their joined hands off Grantaire’s thigh, until they’re resting on the cushions between them. “To make sure I didn’t make that mistake.”

“That doesn’t explain the others.” Grantaire’s voice is hushed, as though Enjolras were closer than he actually is. Enjolras moves closer. “If it’s just about us, that doesn’t explain the rest of the voices I have in my head.”

“Well, maybe it isn’t just about us,” Enjolras concedes. “But this, you and me, feels on purpose.”

“Does it?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, just brings the hand in his up to his mouth and kisses the knuckles.

Grantaire makes a sound like he’s been punched, and then he pulls his hand free, puts it on the back of Enjolras’ neck, and kisses his mouth.

“Thank God,” Enjolras murmurs, reaching for him. Grantaire somehow manages to quirk an eyebrow that Enjolras can see through the kissing, which makes him want to laugh. “I was worried it wouldn’t feel like anything, that I’d have to wait until we were in the same place.”

“I worried it would feel like this,” Grantaire whispers, and then Enjolras has to kiss him again.

 

“Professor Lamarque?”

“Hello, Enjolras,” Enjolras’ old philosophy professor says, smiling slightly at him over the plate of eggs the way he always did over the papers Enjolras brought to his office hours for extra editing. “I see you’ve been birthed.”

“I suppose? Is that what it’s called? You’re like me, right?”

“I am like you,” Lamarque concedes. “I had no idea you were like me until recently, but we’re both Sensates.” The word seems familiar, vibrating on the same frequency as his connection to Grantaire. Enjolras makes a mental note to ask Grantaire about it later, and gives Lamarque a nod. “I’m sorry for not coming to you sooner, but I wanted to make sure I could give you accurate information.”

“Accurate information about what?” Enjolras forces himself to take a bite of egg, and then another - too often he’s neglected food in favor of research, and he has a feeling this situation will be no different if he doesn’t focus. “About what Sensates are?”

Lamarque chuckles. “No, I know what Sensates are. My cluster was birthed when I was nineteen, I am as familiar with our kind as anyone alive. No,” he goes on, sobering quickly, “The circumstances in which I discovered your birth were… troubling, to say the least, and I felt I had to warn you.”

“Warn me of what?”

“The father of your cluster is hunting you.”

Fuck the eggs. Enjolras shoves the plate to the side so violently it almost falls off; Lamarque reaches out to catch and steady it. “Hunting me?”

“Not you specifically. Anyone in your cluster will do.” Lamarque stands and offers a hand to help Enjolras up. “Come with me, I have all the information laid out in my office.”

And indeed, Enjolras’ kitchen table is now the stately brown desk he remembers from the last time he saw his advisor, although the office has been redecorated. Spread out across the desk’s surface are three manilla file folders. Lamarque sits and gestures for Enjolras to pull a chair up next to him. “These are the other members of my cluster,” he begins, opening the first folder.

There are eight photographs on the first sheet of paper, with names underneath. All are crossed out except for four: Javert, Valjean, Tholomyes, and Lamarque. “The other four have died,” Lamarque says, before Enjolras can ask. “Before the other day I had no reason to suspect their deaths were from anything other than natural causes. They certainly seemed ordinary, if horrifying, when they happened.”

Enjolras thinks of watching Grantaire die, of _feeling_ Grantaire die, and swallows. “What did you mean, the father of my cluster?”

“Clusters are birthed, but they don’t require two parents, as human births do. One will suffice; there is usually at least one member of any given cluster capable of birthing a new cluster. This is your father,” he says, laying a finger on Tholomyes’ picture.

“That’s the one who’s hunting us?” He looks mild enough, salt-and-pepper hair and a charming face. “Why?”

“That is what I had to find out.” Lamarque flips the chart over; beneath it is a photocopied birth certificate. Tholomyes’ name is printed as the father, and the mother is a name Enjolras recognizes from the previous page. “Fantine…”

“After our cluster was born, Tholomyes and Fantine found each other in person and conceived a child together. Tholomyes disappeared before the child’s birth, however, from Fantine’s life and from our cluster.”

“Can you do that?” Lamarque looks up at his tone, and Enjolras goes on, “Cut yourself off from your cluster, I mean.”

“Indeed, although the effects of doing so long-term have not yet been studied. Two of my own cluster have done so, but I will come to that.” He turns back to the folder. “As I said, Tholomyes deserted Fantine. Their minds were so closely entwined by that point that the loss was quite devastating to her; the fact that she lived six years after Nicholas’ birth is a testament to her strength. She eventually began to deteriorate to the point where she begged another of our cluster, Valjean, to find her and take her child. She died before he could reach her.”

“And Nicholas?”

“Until recently I believed him to be lost, dead or in care somewhere. I assume Tholomyes thought the same, until a year ago.”

“What happened a year ago?” Enjolras’ mind is racing, trying to feel out if the name Nicholas strums any of the other connection points in his brain, but nothing happens.

“Tholomyes dropped his defenses,” Lamarque says, closing the folder. “He rejoined what was left of our cluster and began hunting for Valjean.”

Enjolras sits back. “So, you think Tholomyes is birthing clusters because he believes his son is a Sensate? And he’s hunting us, because if he can find us, he can find Nicholas?”

Lamarque smiles. “You always were quick on the uptake. Yes, that’s exactly what I believe.”

“Then the other three members of your cluster…”

Lamarque’s voice is crisp when he answers, devoid of any emotion. “I do not think he knew who Fantine entrusted their child to. He is operating on the assumption that Fantine gave him to one of our other selves, and is working his way through the list.” A note of bitterness creeps in. “If he had tried Valjean first, I do not think he would have gone elsewhere. Valjean’s mind is locked up tight, hence the dropping of all Tholomyes’ defenses. He commits himself fully to the attack, as it were. His single-mindedness has been to our advantage, as it has allowed me to eavesdrop without him noticing. He thinks me weak, and does not suspect me of trying to get involved. Lord knows I have never done so before.”

Enjolras reaches out to clasp Lamarque’s shoulder, earning him a weak smile. “Gather your cluster,” Lamarque says. “There is more I have to tell you, but for now this must do - I have a class about to begin. Gather your cluster, and protect yourselves. And above all, do not let Tholomyes or Javert look you in the eye.”

With that, Enjolras is back at his table, alone with only the cold eggs. He waits long enough to scrape them into the trash and wash the plate, and then he grasps hold of his connection to Grantaire and steps through.

“Hello,” Grantaire says, blessedly still awake. “What brings you here?”

Enjolras climbs onto the bed, straddles Grantaire’s legs, and kisses him firmly. “What’s happened?” Grantaire asks once Enjolras pulls back enough to let him. “Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s happened. Yet. I just,” and Enjolras kisses him again. Once the thought of losing Grantaire as Lamarque lost the rest of his cluster has begun to yield to the warmth of Grantaire’s face against his hands, Enjolras pulls back and presses their forehead together. “How many others of us have you met?”

“A few. Why?”

“Time for a group meeting.”

 

Courfeyrac has been asleep for precisely four minutes, leaving Marius effectively alone in the apartment. He’s just settled in with his favorite midnight snack, a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk, and his thoughts have just turned to Cosette, when she’s suddenly on the couch next to him. “Hello!” he says, feeling the grin spread over his face. “I was just thinking about you.”

Cosette smiles back at him. “I know.” Her smile doesn’t stay long, however, and she stands, face serious. “Come on, group meeting,” she says, reaching out a hand. “We’re meeting at Enjolras’ place.” Marius takes her hand and she pulls him through, into a living room much cleaner than any Marius has ever lived in before.

Five others are there - Marius recognizes Enjolras and Grantaire, holding hands on a couch, and Eponine is curled up on the last open seat next to Grantaire. There’s a tall, bald man who looks like he could crush Marius beneath his foot, and an even taller fellow with glasses perusing Enjolras’ bookshelves.

The bald man - Bahorel, Marius realizes he knows - sees them first. “That’s seven,” he says. “Who’s missing?”

Grantaire sits up. “Boss is missing, hold on, I’ll get him.” He closes his eyes for a second and then Bossuet is standing very close to Marius.

Bossuet gives a massive yawn. “Sorry I’m late, I was asleep. Who knew telepathy would depend so much on time zones?”

“We don’t have time for philosophy right now,” Bahorel says. “I was halfway through dinner with my flatmates.”

“What did you tell them?” the glasses fellow - Combeferre - asks.

“Said the people in my head needed me.” Bahorel shrugs. “Fucked off to the bathroom. At least one of them believes me. The other thinks I’ve had one too many concussions.”

Cosette coughs. “He has a point. What’s going on, Enjolras?”

Enjolras gives Grantaire’s hand one last squeeze and stands up. “I’ve just had word from another one of us - my mentor, in university. He says we’re being hunted by someone from his cluster. I wanted to get us all together to share what he told me. The person hunting us has reason to believe his son is a Sensate - that’s what we’re called, for those who don’t know - and he’s tracking as many clusters as he can get his eyes on to find him.”

Marius raises his hand. “What do you mean, get his eyes on?”

Grantaire leans forward. “Apparently, we can cross clusters, or whatever, if we’ve made eye contact with someone else. God knows why, but it’s true.”

“Who’s the kid?” Eponine speaks up from her corner. Everyone turns to look at her. “Well, if we know who he’s looking for, we can just tell him he’s not one of our - cluster, did you say? And he’ll leave us alone.”

Enjolras frowns. “Lamarque has reason to believe Tholomyes - that’s the one hunting us, who birthed us - has killed at least three people. I don’t think he’s the type to leave loose ends. He had a child with another woman from his cluster, Fantine, and then abandoned her. The boy’s name is Nicholas. He’s in the care of someone named Valjean.”

Cosette’s hand goes tight in Marius’. “How old would he be?” she asks. Marius thinks he can hear steel in her voice, or maybe fear.

Enjolras shakes his head. “I’m not sure. We didn’t have a lot of time to talk. Lamarque’s teaching a class right now, but I’m going to try and go back tomorrow and find out more. In the meantime, though, I wanted to give you all warning - Tholomyes birthed us, so he knows where we were at that moment, at least. He could show up anywhere. Don’t let him make eye contact with you, I’m not sure what he’ll do if he finds one of us.”

It’s Combeferre’s turn to speak. “What does he look like? It’ll be easier to avoid him if we know who to avoid, rather than just refusing to look at any given stranger.”

“You saw a picture, right?” Grantaire says. He’s fumbling in his jacket, and pulls out a small book and pencil. “Focus on that, I want to try something.”

Enjolras closes his eyes, clearly focusing on something, and Grantaire flips open the book and starts to draw. Marius takes a few steps closer, Cosette’s hand still clutching his, and even Bahorel, who’s been frowning skeptically, moves around behind the couch to peer over Grantaire’s shoulder.

It’s a few minutes before he’s done, but Grantaire finally throws the pencil down, three faces etched out on the paper in front of him. He rubs his forehead, and Enjolras opens his eyes, concerned. “Headache,” Grantaire says. “That was harder than I expected.”

Enjolras takes his hand again and turns towards the sketches. “You did well.” His other hand comes out to point. “This one’s Tholomyes, this is Javert, and this is Valjean.”

Cosette’s fingernails dig into Marius’ hand so hard he almost misses Eponine asking what Javert has to do with anything. He raises her hand to his face and kisses it almost instinctively, but it does nothing to ease the lines between her brows. “I’m not sure,” Enjolras is saying. “I’ll ask Lamarque once I find him. In the meantime, if you see any of these men, avoid their gaze. I’ll be back in touch once I know more.”

“Are we done here?” Bahorel asks, straightening. “I’ve been gone long enough, my food’s probably cold.” Enjolras waves a hand at him and Bahorel disappears. Marius realizes that Eponine’s been staring curiously at Cosette, but she gives him a small smile and vanishes herself. Cosette gives a tug on Marius’ hand, and then the two of them are back in his own living room.

“Are you alright?” he asks. She’s still frowning, and biting her lip so hard he’s afraid she’ll draw blood. “Hey, come on.” He reaches a hand up and puts it against her cheek. It shakes her out of her reverie; she turns her palm into it. “What’s wrong?”

Cosette opens her mouth, closes it again, and then says, “I can’t tell you. Not quite yet. Not until I’m sure.” She looks at him. “I’m sorry.”

Marius shrugs. “I trust you. But you’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do, right?” He’s had only two brief, glorious conversations with her, but already he knows that he would throw himself in front of a bus - or in front of Tholomyes - for her.

She nods. “I’ll tell you.” Then she leans forward and kisses him, light and sweet, and he feels his knees go weak. “Papa’s awake,” she whispers when she pulls back. “I have to go.” He dares to kiss her then, and she smiles against his lips before she’s gone.

 

Cosette rolls off her bed, where she’d positioned herself when Bahorel came to get her. She’s still not sure what her body does when her mind is elsewhere, and until she can conduct a few experiments she’s determined to play it safe.

She looks at her face in the mirror for several long seconds, getting control of herself, before heading for the kitchen, where her father is moving about, washing dishes and whistling quietly to himself.

“Hello, darling,” he says when she appears at the bottom of the stairs, giving her a smile and a kiss on the forehead. “How did you sleep?”

She ignores the question. “Your name.”

“What about it?” If she knew him any less well she would have missed the way his shoulders tense, the way they always do when he introduces himself to someone new. The way it does when she asks about her birth mother, or anything to do with his past.

“It’s Ultime, right?” Cosette takes another step into the kitchen. “Ultime Fauchelevant. That’s your name.”

“That it is.” His back is turned to her now, and that more than anything makes her sure she’s right. If she could see his face she would be comparing it with Grantaire’s sketch, finding all the ways they differ, but like this, looking at his hair and back, she’s sure.

“Are you sure?” She takes another step and sits down at the table. “Are you sure it isn’t Valjean?”

He drops the last loaf of bread on the counter and lets out a long breath, looking at her. “Where did you hear that name?” He doesn’t deny it, which is a mercy. Cosette couldn’t have handled it if he lied to her now.

“You’re Valjean, and my mother’s name was Fantine, and my father’s name is Tholomyes. And my name,” her voice breaks, and she swallows. “My name is Nicholas.”

“Your name is Cosette,” he says, sitting down across from her and taking her hand. “You told me so when we met, that you were Cosette, and not Nicholas.”

“What about the rest?” She will not cry, she will not.

Her father sighs again, and lets go of her hand. “The rest is as you say. My name is Jean Valjean, and your mother was Fantine.”

She sits back so suddenly that her chair squeals across the floor. “Then it’s my fault,” she says. “They’re all dead because of me. They’re dead because he’s hunting me!” She’s shouting by the end, and when he reaches for her she stands, her chair toppling over, and backs up until she hits a wall.

“Cosette, where did you hear those names?” her father says to her, standing now, hands out like he’s calming a wild animal. “Who told you all this?”

“Lamarque,” she spits, and his face shutters. “He told someone in my, in my _cluster_ , and I had to find out my father’s real name from a stranger!” She thinks she sees tears in his eyes, but she can’t stop. “Why didn’t you tell me? You could have told me what was happening, I’ve had to go through this alone, and you knew, didn’t you? You must have known, we’ve made eye contact thousands of times, and you never said!”

“I suspected.” His hands are still reaching out to her. “I suspected when you had the headache, but I couldn’t be sure. That part of me is dead, Cosette, dead and buried. I cannot reopen it.”

“Try!” She sits at the table and holds her hand out; he sits and takes it. “You have to try, because he’s killing people. I have to get to him, to stop him, or it’s my fault.”

“There’s no one left for him to kill,” her father says, and she goes cold. “Javert’s been my enemy for far longer than Tholomyes, they will have become allies; and Tholomyes knows Lamarque and I were never close enough for him to be a help now.” There’s a bitter twist to his mouth that speaks of a bad story there, but there isn’t time now.

“How do you know they’re all that’s left of your cluster if you can’t feel them anymore?” She tightens her grip as his face goes blank, caught out. “And besides, Papa, he’s not just looking through them. He’s birthing clusters, he birthed mine, and he’s hunting us to find me. He’ll hurt them, Papa, and I’ll feel it!”

“I’ll teach you to block it out.” She rips her hand out of his and stares at him, but his face is harder than she’s ever seen him. “I’ve done it for decades. You won’t feel a thing. I’m sorry, Cosette, but I can’t worry about everyone’s safety. You are the only one that matters.”

“If you won’t help me I’ll go to Lamarque,” she hears herself saying. “One of my cluster knows him, that’s how I found out. He’ll help me, he wants this stopped as much as I do.”

He hesitates. “You won’t. You’re right, I can still feel them, even if communication is lost. Lamarque is dead.” As she gapes, Valjean stands. “I have to go and make preparations for us to leave. We’ve been here too long as it is.”

“No!” she screams, but he’s already gone. She keeps screaming until the front door slams, and then sinks to the ground, face in her hands. Marius is already there, arms around her shoulders, whispering soft words to her as she weeps into his shirt.

 

Enjolras is long gone, looking for Lamarque, leaving R alone on his couch. He can feel anguish from Cosette, but Marius is with her, so R makes no move to go to her. Drawing pictures from Enjolras’ head took more out of him than he expected, and his eyes are just falling shut when his phone rings.

“What?” he asks, blinking himself awake again.

“So you’re never going to believe this, but I got arrested,” Chetta says in his ear.

“What?” He stands, making for his shoes in the corner. “What the hell did you do?”

“Took exception to some racist shitstain at my lunch place and caused a scene. Public disturbance, the officer said. Anyway, I’m fine, no charges or anything, but can you come pick me up?”

R grabs the car keys from the table by the door. “Already on my way. Try not to punch anyone until I get there.”

“No promises.”

“I’ll hurry.” He hangs up.

The police station is less than ten miles away, but it’s rush hour, so R doesn’t get there for a solid half an hour. He finds Musichetta sitting in a chair in the front lobby, clearly still furious at the world. “You’re fucking late.”

“It’s fucking rush hour. Get arrested at a more convenient time next time.” He hugs her when she stands, and over her shoulder an officer looks out from a doorway. R holds a hand up in greeting. “Any paperwork, or are we good to go?”

“Good to go,” the officer says, coming fully out of his office. “No more throwing cutlery, young lady.”

“Yes, sir.” Chetta’s still clinging to R’s shirt, and he realizes why as she crosses her fingers in the material where the officer can’t see. “Thank you, sir.”

Grantaire bites down his smile and leads her to the door, which opens before they get there. The figure before them is backlit, so it’s a moment before R can make out his face.

His stomach sinks.

“Ah, Agent Javert,” he hears from behind him, through the windstorm in his ears. “Glad you were able to get through. Traffic wasn’t too bad?”

“Not at all,” Javert says, finally pulling his eyes away from Grantaire’s. “Not more than expected, anyway. Shall we get started?” And then Chetta’s hustling R through the door behind Javert, looking at him strangely.

“Are you alright?” she says, coming around to face him fully. “You look like you’ve just been kicked in the balls.”

“I just remembered something I have to do.” R can already feel Javert faintly scrabbling at his consciousness, getting a foothold despite the meeting he’s in. “Listen, you take the car home, alright? I’ve got some stuff to do in town, I’ll take the subway.”

“It’s a good mile from here,” she protests, still peering at his eyes. “I’ll drive you there.”

“No!” She drops her hand from his arm, startled. “Sorry,” he says. “Just been a rough day. The walk’ll do me good.” He leans forward and kisses her forehead. “I’ll see you for dinner, alright?”

“Alright.” She’s clearly not satisfied, but she turns and heads for the car. He makes off in the other direction, for a small copse of trees on the way to the nearest subway stop. Once there, he leans against a tree, shaking.

“What is it?” Enjolras asks, coming up beside him. “What’s wrong?”

It’s hard to find enough air to make words. “He saw me. Javert, he saw me, he’s in my head.”

“Shit.” Enjolras presses closer, as if his body is enough to stop the quiet tendrils of Javert’s meeting R can still hear. “Shit, shit, is he listening now?”

“He’s in a meeting,” R answers, shaking his head. “He’s got a foothold so he doesn’t lose me, but he’s not actively listening, no. What the fuck do I do?”

“I couldn’t find Lamarque, so I drove to his office.” Enjolras’ fingers are in Grantaire’s hair, one at his temple and the other at the back of his head, and R tries to ground himself there. “No one’s seen him, but I was able to get into his office, his papers are still here. There was something in one of them, hold on, let me look.” Grantaire grabs hold of Enjolras before he can disappear, and then the two of them are in a dark, cramped office, papers spread out across the table. Enjolras flips through them with one hand, the other still clenched in Grantaire’s fingers. “Here. It looks like people have tried to keep others out by compromising their own mental states. Meditating, in some cases, or drugs, anything that shuts the consciousness off. We can try that.”

“There’s no fucking way I’ll be able to meditate myself into anything resembling a trance right now,” Grantaire says. He’s almost laughing with the horror, with this new information and what it means he’ll have to do. “But I’ve been sober for almost a year now. I’ll bet I can hit blackout drunk real fucking fast.”

Enjolras looks like he wants to protest, but he and R are tied deep enough that he obviously feels Grantaire’s certainty. Instead, he comes over and pulls Grantaire into a hug, fingers back in his hair. “I’m getting on a plane,” he whispers. “I’ll take the papers and get on a plane to you now.”

“You can’t.” R tightens his fingers in Enjolras’ shirt. “If he’s coming for me there can’t be another one of us there, it’s too risky.”

“I don’t care.” Enjolras pulls back and kisses Grantaire, hard and desperate. “I’m not letting you be alone for this. I’ll be on the first flight I can find. Just get yourself somewhere safe until I can get to you, and we’ll figure something out. I promise.”

Grantaire can feel himself start to tear up, but he nods and manages, “Hurry,” before Enjolras kisses him again and then he’s alone.

He takes a few seconds to pull himself together before grabbing hold of his tether to Bossuet and stepping through. “Hey, man,” he says.

Bossuet looks up from where he’s grating cheese into a bowl. Bossuet slips and hisses, catching his fingers on the grater, and it’s only then R realizes his boyfriend is there too, reaching over to look at Bossuet’s fingers. Too late to stop now.

“I need a favor.”

 

“One of the people in your head needs a favor,” Joly repeats, as Bossuet skims through the contacts on his phone with the hand not being tended. “Bossuet, look at me.”

Bossuet drops his phone on the table and looks at his boyfriend. “Joly, please,” he says. “You said you believed me before, that you didn’t think I was crazy. I need you to keep thinking that, please. Grantaire’s in trouble.”

Joly looks at him for a heartbeat, and then drops a kiss onto the newly-bandaged fingers. “What do you need from me?”

“I may need you to help convince someone to trust me. I’ll let you know. For now, just keep holding my hand?” Joly comes around to the chair next to Bossuet and sits down, grasping his wounded hand carefully. “Thank you,” Bossuet whispers, kissing him, and makes the call.

Musichetta answers on the fourth ring. “Who is this?”

“It’s Bossuet. Remember, we spoke on the phone a few weeks ago?”

“Right. R’s experiment, where he gives my phone number to random men I’ve never met.” Musichetta’s voice is unamused.

Bossuet laughs anyway, slightly hysterical. Joly presses a reassuring kiss to his palm. “Right. That one. I’m calling on R’s behalf now, actually. There’s something he needs me to tell you. It isn’t going to be easy to hear, and you’re probably not going to believe all of it, but I’m telling you now, every word is the truth. I promise.”

She’s quiet for a few moments, and then says, “Try me.”

He tells her.

She’s quiet for a few more moments. “I’m sorry,” Bossuet says. “I know it’s a lot.” Joly’s been getting updates ever since Bossuet first met R, and even he looks wrecked.

“A lot?” Musichetta shouts. “You’re telling me you’re psychically linked to my roommate, who’s being hunted by some terrorist we ran into at the police station, and now he’s somewhere breaking his sobriety because of it? And I’m supposed to believe you?”

“Javert isn’t a terrorist, he’s an Interpol agent,” Bossuet says. “But that’s pretty much the gist of it, yeah.”

“Where is he?” He can hear Musichetta standing up and moving around. “Where is R now? I’m going to him.”

“You can’t. They may be watching you, and the whole point of this is to make Grantaire more difficult to find. I can’t tell you where he is. But I can promise you he isn’t alone.” Combeferre had come through during Bossuet’s explanation, telling him Enjolras sent him to look after Grantaire. “One of us is a medical student, he’ll look after R as long as he can, and Enjolras is on a plane to him now. He isn’t going through this alone, I promise.”

Musichetta actually growls. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this.”

Bossuet sighs, and shuts his eyes. “When he was nineteen, Grantaire and his father got into a knock-down, screaming fight about his college major. Grantaire wanted art, his father wanted business and math. They haven’t spoken since, but every six months R sends a handmade card to his mother, and one every other month to his sister.” Musichetta is silent, and Bossuet goes on. “Say you’re right. Say I have no telepathic connection to your roommate. If that’s the case, then the only reason I can know that is that he trusts me enough for me to know. And you and I both know he doesn’t talk about his family with anyone.” She still says nothing. “So either everything I’m telling you is the truth, or Grantaire trusts me enough to lie to you because it’s genuinely better for you to believe this story than the truth. Either way, what he needs right now is for you to trust me as much as he does.”

Joly’s crying now, and Bossuet realizes that he is, too.

In his ear, Musichetta sighs. “I hate this. I hate this so much. But you promise he’s safe?”

“He’s as safe as it is possible for him to be at this moment.”

She laughs, hollowly. “Yeah. That’s a huge comfort.”

“I’m sorry,” Bossuet says again. It sounds pathetic in his ears, but it’s all he can think of to say. “There’s nothing else that we can do right now.”

“But you’ll tell me as soon as there is?” Musichetta’s voice is sharp again, and he’s grateful for it, using it to pull himself up out of his own worry and the general air of despair radiating from Grantaire. “I’m serious, Mystery Man. If anything changes, you tell me immediately.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good.” She hangs up.

Bossuet drops the phone on the table and pitches forward until his face is buried in Joly’s shoulder.

 

Cosette drops her phone onto the table, giving a little scream of frustration. Marius, sitting next to her and clutching her hand, frowns. “Still no answer?”

“I’ve called him eighteen times. He always answers when I call, no matter what, and now he’s just vanished.” Cosette reaches through to R and can barely get through; he’s huddled up on a couch she doesn’t recognize, Combeferre sitting next to him. R gives her a weak grin and then it’s over, the tentative connection severed. Cosette picks up the phone again.

Before she can dial it, the front door opens. She whirls out of her chair, Marius hovering a few steps behind her. “Papa?” she calls. Her father comes into the room. “Papa, you need to get through to Tholomyes. Now.”

“No, Cosette. Go upstairs and pack. We’re leaving immediately for Paris, and then a flight into Canada.” He isn’t meeting her eyes, and moves to brush past her, to head upstairs and do his own packing.

Cosette grabs his arm. “It’s too late for that.” Her father finally looks up and she meets his gaze. “Javert has found one of us. He’s in Washington D.C. now. There isn’t anywhere to hide.” Her voice cracks, and unseen by her father, Marius steps forward and takes her other hand. “Right now there’s an artist in America breaking his sobriety of nearly a year because you’re too much of a coward to accept what’s happening.” Her father’s face has fallen, mouth agape and eyes sadder than she’s ever seen. She gulps and goes on. “So I’m going to America, and I will find Javert, and this will end, one way or another.”

Her father shakes his head. “No, you’re not.” He sinks into a chair, head in his hands.

“Yes, Papa! You can’t stop me!”

“Javert doesn’t care about you,” he whispers. “It’s me he’s been hunting. The only reason he’s allied himself with Tholomyes is that he knows you’re with me.” He rubs his face and looks up at her. “So I go to America. You go to Vancouver.”

“Papa, I’m not going to Canada!”

“That’s where Tholomyes is.” He’s more miserable than Cosette has ever seen him, and she grabs his hands. “So you go to Tholomyes, and I to Javert. You’re right, my daughter. I have been a coward.”

She kisses his hands. “Thank you, Papa,” she murmurs.

He reaches out and takes her chin, standing up so he towers above her. “You are the best of my life, Cosette, and whatever happens, know that I am, and always have been, proud of you.”

She hugs him. “And I you.”

Her father holds her, squeezing tight, and then releases her. “Come. We have flights to catch.”

 

Eponine doesn’t put it all together until the next day, when she sits upright on the couch, knocking Gav off her in the process.

“Christ, Ep, watch it!” he yelps, rubbing the back of his head where she’d hit it with her shoulder.

“Sorry, kid, sorry,” she says, reaching out to pat his arm. “Just remembered something. Azelma!” she shouts, and her little sister pokes her head out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in her mouth. “Zel, do you remember when you were really little, and we had that boy staying with us? The foster kid, the one the rich guy came and took away.”

Zel nods, and then pulls her head back inside. Eponine hears her spit, then the sound of running water, and then Zel comes back out, grabbing the laptop from the floor where Gav had left it. “Yeah. Nicholas. Weird kid.”

“Weird how?”

Zel shrugs. “Just, weird. Twitchy. He put his name on all his stuff, but in pencil, and he would erase it and write something else sometimes.”

Eponine sits forward. “Write what? A different name?”

“Yeah, something with a C, some girl’s name.”

“Cosette?”

Zel nods, already lost in whatever’s on the screen. “That’s the one. Like I said, weird.”

Eponine stands up. “You and I are gonna have a talk about sensitivity and transphobia soon, Zel. But first I’ve got something I need to do.” She crosses to her bedroom and opens the door. “I don’t know how long it’ll take, but don’t interrupt me unless it’s an emergency. Got it?” Gav’s turned back to the TV and neither of them respond. “Seriously, guys. Nothing, unless something’s on fire, someone’s bleeding, or one of our parents turns up. Got it?”

“Got it,” Gav yells from the couch, and Zel flashes her a thumbs-up. Eponine steps into her room and closes the door.

Cosette’s on an airplane, in first-class by the looks of it. She catches Eponine’s eye and stands, making for the bathroom at the front of the cabin.

“Thought you rich folks would have bigger plane bathrooms,” Eponine says, wedging herself in and perching on the tiny counter as Cosette shuts the door.

“Money can’t buy everything,” Cosette says drily. Her voice is shaky, though, and she looks like she’s been crying.

“So you’re the kid, huh?” Cosette looks up at her, feigning confusion. Eponine plays along. “The one the douchebag is looking for. Tholomyes.”

Cosette sighs. “Who else have you told?”

“No one. Just worked it out myself.” Eponine pauses. “I remember the night you left, but I couldn’t remember your name. Had to ask Azelma.”

That gets her a little smile. “How is Azelma? She’s got to be what, eighteen now?”

“Next month, yeah. And we’ve got a little brother now, just turned fourteen.”

“Gavroche,” Cosette says slowly. “That’s his name?”

Eponine nods. She waits a moment, and then kicks Cosette softly in the knee. “Where are you headed?”

“To Tholomyes. He’s in Vancouver.”

Eponine goes cold. “He found Marius?”

Cosette shakes her head. “Not yet. He will do, though.” At Eponine’s face, she says, “Marius is insisting on coming with me. He’s meeting me at the airport.”

“That’s good, I guess.” Now it’s Cosette’s turn to be suspicious. Eponine shrugs. “Well, Grantaire isn’t alone. You shouldn’t be either.”

There are tears in the other woman’s eyes now. “Can I hug you?” she asks. “It’s just-”

Eponine hugs her, as best she can in the cramped space. Cosette shakes a bit, clings, and then lets go. “Best go,” she says. “Rich people need to pee too, and we’ve been in here long enough.”

“Fair enough. Let me know if you need anything.” Eponine waits for Cosette’s nod before leaving.

 

Enjolras slams out of the cab as soon as it pulls to a stop, throwing what is probably an obscene amount of his newly-exchanged American currency at the driver as he goes. The street he’s on is beautiful, what little he can see of it in his peripheral vision, but Grantaire is two stories above him and Enjolras wants to burn down everything between them.

He’s up the steps of the building in two bounds, punching in the door code that Combeferre whispers in his ear, and he’s reached the staircase before the door swings shut behind him. Thankfully, the stairwell is empty; Enjolras knows he would have knocked anyone else over without a second thought.

Apartment 34D is halfway down the hall. The door opens before Enjolras reaches it, and he steps through and turns.

Grantaire looks like hell, shutting the door behind him and locking it. He reeks of alcohol and his hands and face are covered with charcoal, his clothes are rumpled, and he’s clearly using the door to keep him upright. He’s the best sight Enjolras has ever seen, and before Grantaire can speak Enjolras pushes him back and kisses him.

Grantaire gasps into his mouth, and Enjolras can’t blame him - it feels like the world has shifted under his feet, like every moment they’ve ever spent together is happening again, now, all at the same time. It’s over in a moment, and Enjolras kisses him again. R tastes like whiskey and tobacco.

When they finally separate, Enjolras’ jacket is covered in charcoal handprints and Grantaire looks slightly steadier. “Hi,” R whispers.

“Hello,” Enjolras whispers back. He’s switched to English, not sure if whatever telepathic translation powers they all seem to have will work in person, and unwilling to miss a single word exchanged with Grantaire. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

R snorts. “I look like shit, Apollo, no need for flattery.”

“And yet.” Enjolras kisses his forehead and steps away, towing R back towards the couch. “Where are we?”

“The apartment of Irma, my tattoo artist’s girlfriend.” R grabs a tumbler full of what looks like scotch and takes a swig before sitting down. “She was heading out anyway to go spend the weekend with Floreal, and somehow Flor got her to agree to leave the door unlocked for me.” He takes another gulp and puts the glass down. “I told Flor to give her an orgasm from me as thanks.”

Enjolras huffs a laugh and draws R in, unwilling to stop touching him now they’ve started. “Where’s Combeferre?”

“I’m here,” Combeferre says, walking out from behind the couch and settling in a chair. “I wanted to give you both some privacy, but I haven’t left otherwise.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says. Combeferre nods. “So how does this work?”

“Ferre won’t let me get drunk enough to pass out,” R mumbles, tucking his head into the curve of Enjolras’ neck.

“This level of inebriation seems to be working,” Combeferre explains. “No need for R to go further down than he absolutely has to, and there are some benefits to him being awake.”

“Can’t Javert track him like this?” Enjolras asks, fingers in R’s hair. He expects he’ll feel awkward about forcing Combeferre to watch their intimacy like this later, but as it stands he really couldn’t care less.

“It doesn’t seem like it. R can sense him a bit, but not enough to get a specific location. It seems likely that goes both ways.”

“Where’s Javert now?”

“Finishing up another round of meetings,” R says after a moment, closing his eyes. “He’s taking his time,” he adds with a laugh. “I dunno, he almost feels… reluctant? Or maybe I’m projecting.”

“Have some water,” Combeferre says, pointing to a bottle on the floor. Enjolras picks it up and passes it to Grantaire, who drinks. “It may be that Javert is reluctant to do this,” Combeferre goes on. “I’ve been doing what research I can and I can’t find any reason Javert would care about Nicholas at all. There’s no connection, other than Tholomyes. I can’t figure out why he’s involved at all.”

Enjolras frowns. “So what happens now?”

“Now, R takes a nap,” Grantaire mumbles, slipping down until his head is in Enjolras’ lap.

Enjolras looks to Combeferre. “May as well,” the medical student says, shrugging. “There’s not much to do but wait. Make sure he eats something when he wakes up, will you?” Enjolras nods, and Combeferre is gone.

 

Cosette stands in the airport terminal for a solid three minutes, wrapped in Marius’ arms. She realizes around minute two that she’s crying softly into his shoulder. Once the aftershocks of their first physical contact have worn off, she gives herself another thirty seconds to be held before taking a deep breath and pulling away. He’s been crying too, she discovers, which makes her lean up and kiss him.

“This is sweet and all,” Bahorel says, stepping up from behind her, “but I suggest you two get moving. We need to be in place before Tholomyes finds out you’re here or we lose the upper hand.”

“Right,” Cosette says, remembering at the last minute to look at Marius while she says it so bystanders don’t stare. “To your car?”

Marius drapes her bag over one shoulder and takes her hand. “About that. My roommate asked what I was going out for so late and I may have told him you were coming. So he’s out in the car. He insisted on driving.”

“You told your roommate about me?”

“Of course.” Marius seems slightly affronted at the implication that he might not have, and she can’t help grinning at him.

Courfeyrac has more personality than Cosette thinks she’s ever seen in one person before. He bounds out of the car and waves vigorously as soon as they’re within his view. “You must be Cosette!” he shouts across the parking lot. “It’s an honor to meet you!”

“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” she replies, amused, and Marius grins at her. Once they reach the car, Marius finally drops her hand and goes to put her bag in the trunk. Cosette extends the hand towards Courfeyrac. “I’m Cosette.”

“And I’m Courfeyrac.” He beams. “It is now an honor to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Courfeyrac spends the first two minutes grilling her on their mysterious mission to the park in the middle of the night, and on how she and Marius met. She flatly refuses to answer either question, which he thankfully takes in good humor. The rest of the ride is devoted to the best Marius stories Courfeyrac can come up with, and Cosette laughs harder than she has in a while, Marius sputtering from the backseat.

Courfeyrac deposits them at the entrance to the park and drives off, and all levity leaves Cosette’s body. “Oh god, I can’t do this,” she murmurs.

“Shut up, yes you can.” Eponine straightens from where she was leaning against the stone gate. “Come on. I’ve seen you go thirty-six hours without food and still get the basement cleaner than it ever was or ever has been. And you were seven then. You can totally handle your jerk sperm donor.”

Marius looks like he has questions about this revelation, but when Cosette meets his eye he gives her a smile and holds out his arm.  She slips hers through it and cocks her other arm out; after a beat Eponine takes it and holds out her other arm as well. Bahorel links his through and says, “Team Cosette. Here to kick ass and drink milk.”

“And we’re all out of milk,” Cosette murmurs. She plucks the string linking her to her father, whispers, “Papa? I’m ready now,” and the four of them step forward into the park.

 

Grantaire wakes with a shout, gripping his forehead as he jerks up.

Enjolras drops off the couch next to him, kneeling on the floor and putting his hands on either side of Grantaire’s face. “What is it?” He kisses Grantaire’s forehead, and Grantaire finds words a beat later.

“He’s coming.” Enjolras presses another kiss to R’s temple, shutting his eyes. “I was dreaming… but it wasn’t a dream, it was Javert. He’s done waiting, Tholomyes won’t let him wait anymore. He knows where we are, he just plucked it out of my head like it was nothing, it _hurt_ …”

“Shh,” Enjolras breathes, forehead pressed to R’s shoulder. “We’ll go somewhere else, we’ll hide. It’s going to be fine, R, I promise.” Grantaire shakes his head - _Javert had been_ in his head _, like Enjolras but worse, he wasn’t supposed to be there, it was_ wrong _but he could_ do it anyway - and Enjolras turns R’s head to meet his gaze. “Hey. Listen to me. I won’t let anyone get their hands on you. I can’t keep him out of your head, and I hate that, but he _will not touch you_. I promise.” After a beat, R nods. “Good. Now come, we need to move.”

“No.” Combeferre is back in his chair across the room, and R is sober enough from his nap that he jumps. “Run, but don’t hide. We need to distract him.”

“What do you mean?” R asks, standing. The floor shifts a little under his feet, and he grabs Enjolras’ shoulder for support.

“How much attention are you paying to the others?”

“Shockingly, not much,” Enjolras snaps, standing and wrapping an arm around R’s waist.

“Cosette’s going to intercept Tholomyes now. She’s Nicholas,” Combeferre adds as Enjolras opens his mouth. “Or, she’s Tholomyes’ child, the one he called Nicholas. Her father is Valjean. His plane just landed in DC, we need to give him time to get to Javert.”

“Lead him on a chase,” R says. He’s already planning routes in his head, through the most confusing parts of town, the longest gaps between subway stops, the interchanges where they can swap lines without going aboveground. “If we can keep him running…”

“Then Valjean can get to him before he gets to you,” Enjolras finishes.

“I have an idea,” Bossuet cuts in from the kitchen. He’s already fishing out his phone. “How good is your car insurance, R?”

“Shockingly good. Chetta’s parents splurged for us as a graduation present.”

“Excellent.” Bossuet presses a button and holds the phone up to his ear, and R hears the plan as he thinks it. “Keep me posted.”

R grabs the empty water glass and runs it to the sink, filling it and chugging. He grabs a bag of chips out of the cupboard and shoves a handful in his mouth, praying for sobriety as he swallows. “I think I can get us to the Mall before he catches us. The Lincoln Memorial,” he adds, and Enjolras’ smile warms the hole still eating its way into his stomach.

Bossuet nods and leaves. Combeferre says, “I’ll let Cosette know, to tell Valjean,” and then he’s gone as well.

Grantaire takes another mouthful of chips, another gulp of water, and then holds his hand out. Enjolras takes it. “Time to run for my life,” he says.

“I’ve had worse first dates,” Enjolras replies. Grantaire kisses him, and then they’re off.

 

Musichetta picks up the on the third ring the second time Bossuet dials. “Mystery man,” she mumbles, voice hazy from sleep.

“You saved my number?” he asks, thrown, and then says, “No, sorry, that’s not important right now.”

“What is important right now?” He can hear her moving around, the sound of water being poured.

“You said to let you know if there’s something you can do to help Grantaire.” The sounds on the other end of the call stop, and Bossuet can’t help his nervous grin. “I want you to wreck your car.”

She’s out the door in three minutes, by which time Joly has woken up. Bossuet has put her on speakerphone. “They’re in the subway now,” Bossuet reports, feeling the emptiness of the subway car from Enjolras and Grantaire. “Hold on, let me find out where Javert is.”

He jumps more firmly into R’s mind for a moment and is back in a heartbeat. “Javert’s got their trail, he’s headed towards the Mall. R says Javert’s taking the direct path from the police station you two were at before, he’s in a blue Crown Vic with dirty windows. Get him somewhere you won’t hurt anyone else, and wreck him.”

“Got it,” Chetta says, the sound of her car roaring to life on the other end of the line. “Can you stay on the line?” she asks after a beat. “I don’t know where you’re calling from, but I’m willing to take the roaming charges if you are.”

“Ooh!” Joly says, grappling for his laptop from his bag. “I can help with that. Hello, by the way, I’m Joly, Bossuet’s boyfriend, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

“A glimpse behind the curtain, Mystery Man! Careful, or I’ll learn all your secrets.” Chetta’s voice sounds admirably steady. “Nice to meet you, Joly.”

“And you.” Joly pulls something up on his laptop and says, “Alright, I’ve got a program that will mock up a number local to yours. It was a friend’s dissertation. Bossuet’s gonna hang up, and then you’ll get a call from a different number.”

“I’m getting used to that,” Chetta says, and then the line goes dead. Bossuet slides the phone over to Joly, who types in her number. She answers again. “Are you sure this works? Seems sketchy.”

“Undoubtedly it’s sketchy, and I’ve never personally tried it, but my friend got his degree, so I’m inclined to trust it. If I’m wrong you can bill me.”

Chetta’s laugh is high and slightly manic, but it’s enough to lift Bossuet a little; he puts his head onto Joly’s shoulder and does his best to relax his shoulders. “We’re in Bermuda, by the way,” he says after a moment.

“Never been. Is it nice?”

“Nice enough,” Joly puts in, “if a little confining sometimes. Do you ever get dizzy thinking about how big America is? I do.”

Bossuet grins as Chetta answers, turning to press a kiss into Joly’s neck. “Did I tell you the plan yet? I can’t remember,” he mumbles. Joly shakes his head. “Oh well. I guess you’ll find out. You won’t like it, though.”

“Probably not,” Chetta agrees. “Location check, Mystery Man?” Bossuet slips into a different subway car with Grantaire, and then back into Joly’s lap, rattling off an intersection that’s gone from his memory almost before he finishes. “I’m close,” she says. “If I just cut through here - yup, there he is. Crown Vic, dirty windows. He’s turning down a side road. Thirty seconds,” and now she sounds nervous.

“Please tell me you’re wearing your seatbelt,” Bossuet says, sitting up and clutching Joly’s hand. Joly presses a kiss to Bossuet’s knuckles.

Musichetta gives an ugly laugh. “Safety first.” And then there’s a deafening screech, the sound of metal crunching, and the line goes dead.

Joly pales. Bossuet realizes his nails have drawn blood in the palm not in Joly’s hand. “Was the plan for Musichetta to crash her car into Javert’s?”

“Yup.”

“Christ.” Joly leans forward, elbows on his knees, and rubs his free hand across his face. “Christ.”

 

R hears the squeal of tires through Javert’s ears, and then a split-second later through his own. The dissonance makes his head throb, but Enjolras has his hand and is towing him full-tilt up the steps of the subway tunnel, out into the glare of the spotlights. “What’s the timing look like?” Enjolras asks, pulling them both to a stop behind a tree.

R slides into Javert’s head and laughs, short and harsh and dragging himself back into his own body again. “Chetta’s got him by the hair,” he says, catching his breath. “She kicks like a mule, I’ve say we’ve got at least a minute’s head start.”

“Where the hell is Valjean?” Enjolras mutters. “We may need longer if he doesn’t show up.”

“He’s on his way,” Combeferre reports from R’s left side. “Cosette says he’ll just be another moment.”

“Enjolras is right, we don’t have a moment.” R takes Enjolras’ hand again and starts into the trees. “He’s shaken Chetta loose and made a break for it, he’ll be here _now_ , we need to move.”

The two of them have made it only a few steps before Combeferre’s hand comes down onto R’s shoulder. “Not that way.” He turns R around and points him the other direction, across a flat lawn towards the center of the Mall. “Give Valjean an open space to catch up. Go!”

They’re running, faster than R’s ever run before, and he thinks he must be borrowing someone else’s lungs for this, because he quit smoking years ago but he’s never breathed this easily while moving fast. He chances a look over his shoulder and he can see Javert now, running straight at them.

He turns back, wills his legs a little faster, and a little bit more -

“Javert!”

The shout booms across the lawn, echoing so loudly in Javert’s heart that R stumbles with the force of it, hitting the grass knees-first. Enjolras falls next to him, throwing his arms over R as if a nuclear blast were coming.

“Javert!”

R shakes Enjolras off enough to turn around, and there’s another shape now, striding across the lawn towards Javert. The man passes under a streetlight, and R recognizes Valjean. “It’s him,” he hisses to Enjolras, who isn’t looking at them, but at R. “It’s Valjean, let me up.”

“You’re not going anywhere near them!” Enjolras hisses, trying to tug R back down into his arms.

“It’s fine,” R whispers, and knows it’s true. As soon as Valjean shouted, all thoughts of Grantaire had left Javert’s mind. R would be surprised if Javert even knew he was still there. “It’s alright, come on, I want to hear.”

Combeferre’s hands wrap around R’s free arm and pull him upright; Bossuet steadies him as he stumbles, suddenly gasping from the run. Enjolras plasters himself to the back of R’s shoulder, still clinging to his hand, and together the four of them advance on where Javert has turned, staring at Valjean as he approaches.

Valjean stops ten feet away from Javert. “Javert,” he says again, softer. “Enough.”

“Enough?” Javert sounds incredulous, and also on the verge of tears. “You dare face me again, after seventeen years, and tell _me_ enough? As though the fault were mine! As though you were not the criminal here, but me!”

“I do dare,” Valjean replies. “I am a criminal. I admit to it, fully and without reservation. I will hand myself over to your care, to transport me into Interpol custody. I will not fight, I will not run.”

“How good of you!” Javert, R notices, has taken a step back from Valjean’s cool calm. “How kind of you, indeed, to submit to consequences you should have faced two decades ago.”

“I have one condition.” Javert scoffs. Valjean waits for the echoes to die down before continuing. “My condition is this. You cease pursuit of my daughter. You cease pursuit of my daughter’s cluster. You ensure that Tholomyes faces consequences for his crimes as I do mine - I speak here of the multiple murders committed in his pursuit of my daughter. And finally, and most importantly, you swear here and now that you will never again enter the mind of this young man, for communication, tracking, or any other purpose.” At this, Valjean lifts his head and looks at Grantaire; or rather, as R realizes, just over his head. Not meeting his eyes. Javert follows his gaze and turns, looking R square in the face.

R knows what he looks like, through the eyes of his three clustermates. He looks like hell. He hasn’t shaved in three days, nor showered, nor changed his clothes. He reeks of alcohol. There are bags under his eyes.

R reaches out and wraps a hand around Javert’s bared wrist.

Javert stumbles backwards, the force of their mental collision strong enough that even R falters, supported as he is by three people. Enjolras’ hand tightens, and R closes his eyes and _shoves_ , pushing everything he has, everything he’s felt and done to survive the past few days into Javert as hard as he can.

Javert wrenches free with a cry, slapping the hand R had touched to his forehead. Before he can regain his bearings Valjean steps forward and grabs Javert’s other hand in his own. “Enough!” Javert shouts, struggling to break free; Valjean holds firm for one heartbeat, then another, and then releases him. “Enough.” This time it’s a whisper. “You’ve made your point.”

“I meant what I said.” Valjean’s voice is quieter now too. “I am yours to arrest, Javert. I have done enough running.”

Javert’s shaking his head before Valjean has finished speaking. “That’s over now. Go back to your life. I will go back to mine.” He gives a hollow laugh. “What’s left of mine.”

Valjean reaches out for him again, but Javert has already turned away, walking slowly across the lawn into the darkness.

The five of them stand in silence for a few moments, and then R hears a soft “Oh,” from Bossuet and looks up. Chetta’s making her way towards them, limping softly with a little blood on her face, and R feels his knees give out.

Enjolras catches him, wraps an arm around his shoulders and keeps him upright as he staggers towards Chetta; she throws her arms around him and he begins to weep.

 

Cosette lets out a long breath. Marius wraps his arm more firmly around her, and she leans her head on his shoulder, adjusting herself on the bench they’ve chosen to wait on. Bahorel’s in front of them, as far as he can go without snapping back to Wellington, and Eponine is the same distance behind them. Bahorel breaks his concentration for just a second, catching Cosette’s eye and grinning.

It’s long enough.

Tholomyes strides out from a bend in the path to Cosette’s left, face set hard; his scowl barely resembles the jovial man from Grantaire’s sketch. He pulls to a halt when he sees the two of them that he can see, sitting on the bench and holding hands. “Marius,” he calls, and there’s the smile from the drawing. “It’s lovely to meet you at last.”

Marius opens his mouth to reply and chokes. Eponine’s there in an instant, leaning on the back of the bench and drawling, “Wish I could say the same,” through his mouth. His free hand comes up to pat her arm in thanks.

Tholomyes catches the motion. “Are there others here? I suppose that’s for the best. The fewer times I have to make this speech, the better.” He turns to Cosette, eyes somewhere above her head, and winks. “Playing the megalomaniac does get wearisome, after a while.”

“How fortunate for you, then, that you’ll never have to do it again.” Bahorel’s at her side, hand out, but Cosette stands under her own power and steps forward, Marius’ hand falling out of hers.

“Well, that would be convenient,” Tholomyes replies, still politely keeping his eyes above her head. She fixes hers directly on his face. “Does this mean you know where the one I seek is?”

“I do.” This time Cosette lets Bahorel touch her, slipping her left hand into his and squeezing tight, while her right hand grabs Tholomyes by the chin and drags his eyes down to meet hers.

He staggers, mouth agape, and she falters too, stumbling backwards into Marius’ waiting chest. “Nicholas,” Tholomyes breathes, his own hand coming up to cover the spot hers had taken. “You’re my son!”

“There is no one here named Nicholas.” Cosette doesn’t bother to right herself now; the brave part done, she lets herself sag into Marius. Eponine has prowled around behind Tholomyes and is studying him. “My name is Cosette. I am the daughter of Fantine and Valjean. Your search is over.”

“My child,” Tholomyes murmurs, reaching out towards her.

Bahorel snaps a punch into his face, and Eponine sweeps his legs out from under him. Cosette sinks to the ground as well, Marius folding behind her, still keeping her wrapped in his arms.

“What has Valjean done to you?” There’s horror in Tholomyes voice, and in his eyes, looking at her.

Bahorel shoves a knee into his sternum.

“Oh, fuck off,” Cosette murmurs. “It’s over. The police are here.”

She hadn’t realized until she said it, but sirens are cutting the air, and as she watches from her perch in Marius’ lap, agents in various uniforms swarm forward and surround them.

Eponine walks forward and reaches a hand out to Cosette. “Up, girl,” she says. Cosette takes the hand and lets Eponine pull her to her feet. “You can check out now, if you want.” Eponine grins the wolf grin that Cosette remembers from their shared years together, so very long ago. “Dealing with police is kind of my specialty.”

 

**Epilogue**

 

Bossuet adjusts his bow tie in the mirror one last time, and then another time, and then he forces himself to step away and call out, “Jollllllly!”

Joly steps out of bathroom, frantically patting his hair down. “Bow tie! Nice!” He hesitates. “Should I put on a tie? I don’t want her to feel like I’m not as invested. I should put on a tie.”

“Skip the tie,” Bossuet says. “You always look much fancier without a tie, I really don’t understand it. Is mine straight?”

Joly steps forward and tugs one side of the bow tie down slightly. “There. Perfect.” Bossuet beams at him, and Joly leans up to kiss him. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Bossuet says, and then they hear the chime from Bossuet’s laptop in the dining room. Bossuet dives for the laptop, opening the call, while Joly darts into the kitchen. Musichetta’s face fills the screen. “Hello,” Bossuet says, breathless both from the brief dash and from the way her nose crinkles up when she sees him.

“Hello,” she says. “Don’t you look lovely, Mystery Man!”

He grins, trying for ‘mysterious and suave’. He lands on ‘ridiculously charmed’, which is close enough for his purposes. “And you, madam, are a vision.” She grins at him through the camera. “What are you eating tonight?”

“Tonight I am dining on some elegant reheated pizza and the grocery store’s finest boxed wine.” She lifts her wine glass into frame. “How about yourself?”

Joly comes in then, two plates balanced on his wrists, two cans in his hands. “Good evening,” he says, settling into his chair as Bossuet takes the plates. “We are serving a nice leftover chicken parmesan, with one cider, for myself, and one beer, for Bossuet.” Joly lifts his can to the screen. Bossuet rests his against Joly’s, and Musichetta lifts her glass as well. “Bon appetit, my dears.”

 

Grantaire slips into Enjolras’ bedroom from his own, crawling across Enjolras’ bed until he can drop his head onto the other man’s knee. “Save me.”

“From what?” Enjolras asks, putting his book to one side and weaving his fingers through R’s hair.

“Chetta’s on a Skype date with Joly and Bossuet,” R says into the fabric of Enjolras’ shirt. “They’re adorable, and I’m super happy for them and whatnot, but there are some things a man does not need to hear his roommate doing. Especially not in the privacy of his own head.”

Enjolras laughs. “So you need a distraction, then?” R nods, his forehead rucking Enjolras’ shirt up a little. Enjolras reaches down with his free hand and pulls it up higher. “I’m sure we can think of something,” he says, tugging R up into a kiss.

 

Bahorel wakes with a start. Groaning, he picks his pillow up and shoves his head under it, pulling the pillow back down with both hands.

After a few seconds, he feels Jehan’s fingers unlocking his grip and pulling the pillow away. “No suffocation, darling,” Jehan whispers. Bahorel rolls over and scowls at the ceiling. “What’s troubling you?”

“My clustermates are getting freaky,” Bahorel growls. “Which means my nice, peaceful, celebratory slumber gets to be marred by dreams of said freakiness.” He sighs. “Did I wake you?”

“No, I was still up.” Jehan slides until he’s mostly horizontal, head propped up by his wrist. “I can’t offer to help resolve the freaky dreams tonight.”

“Wouldn’t ask,” Bahorel says. “Oddly, nothing gets me in the mood less than awkward cybersex.”

Jehan laughs. “Fair enough. I think there’s still some cake left in the fridge. We could do that instead?”

“Deal.” Bahorel kisses the tip of Jehan’s nose and rolls off the other side of the bed. “I call the last graduation cap.”

“Your exam, your choice.”

 

“Fuck,” Eponine says, appearing in Combeferre’s kitchen before he can enter it himself. He very nearly drops the bag from the bakery. “I want cake.”

“Hmm,” Combeferre says. “I had a similar impulse.” He puts the bag on the counter and slides the box out of it. “Want to share?”

“Will that work?” Eponine asks, looking at the piece of chocolate cake.

“Worth a shot.” Combeferre extracts two forks from the drying rack next to the sink and extends one to Eponine. “For science?”

“For science.” She takes the fork.

They eat in silence for a few moments. Combeferre likes to give desserts the appropriate amount of reverence after a first bite, and Eponine is frowning at her second forkfull. “Well?” he asks. “Did it work?”

“Sort of.” She takes the bite, chews, and swallows. “It’s like a reflection of the taste? I think I’m getting it through you.” She dips her fork in a third time. “Close enough.”

Combeferre holds up his own fork, and, laughing, she taps hers against it. “Cheers,” he says.

 

Cosette looks over at Marius on her left, and they smile at each other. Across the room, her father lifts an eyebrow from his armchair. “Our cluster is being adorable,” Cosette explains. She shifts, reaching out to take Marius’ hand. “There’s cake involved.”

“Well, cake does tend to improve nearly all situations,” her father agrees. “Give them my best, next time you all speak.”

“We will, sir,” Marius says, barely any squeak in his voice this time. There’s a knock on the door. “I’ll get it!” Marius practically shoots off the couch.

Cosette pulls him back down. “Nonsense. You helped us move in, and we’re feeding you. That includes getting the takeout from the door.” She stands. “Papa, come help me. Marius, wait here.”

Her father follows her out to the front door, pays the delivery woman, and helps Cosette carry the bags into the kitchen. “Do you suppose that boy will ever stop being frightened of me?” her father asks, sounding amused.

“Probably not for a while,” she admits, grinning. “But maybe eventually. Assuming we stay here for a good long time.”

Her father leans over and presses a kiss to her forehead. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere, my lark.”

“Will you tell me about my mother?” Cosette blurts out.

Her father gives her a soft smile. “Of course. Although perhaps not right now. We should get some food in that boy before he faints.”

“You’re right, of course. But - tomorrow?” she asks.

“I’ll make pancakes and we’ll talk about Fantine. I promise.”

Cosette grins. “It’s a date.” Raising her voice, she calls, “Marius! Food’s here!” He scuttles in and she presses a kiss to his cheek. “I draw the line at bringing you your dinner in the living room.”

“I - I don’t, I would _never_ -” he blusters, casting an anxious glance at her father.

He gives Marius a stern look and then smiles at Cosette’s chuckle, picking up his plate. “I’ll give you kids some privacy. Marius, lovely to meet you in person, and thanks again for the help today.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Cosette sticks out her tongue at her father’s retreating back, and kisses Marius again, laughing when his fork drops to his plate with a loud clatter. He wraps his arms around her, and Cosette finally lets herself think, _Home._

**Author's Note:**

> Keep checking in, because there's more art to come! Dove is the gift that keeps on giving.
> 
> Come hang out/cry with me on [Tumblr!](thewalrus-said.tumblr.com)


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